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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27251569">Girl Friday</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier'>asuralucier</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abigail Hobbs is the Minnesota Shrike, Alana Bloom is the Chesapeake Ripper, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Typical Weird, Dead Sexy, Early Season 1 AU, F/F, Fingerfucking, Mentor/Protégé, Murder Magic Basically, Will Graham is himself</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:22:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,464</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27251569</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Abigail holds her gaze, dark and steady, like the top of a lake. “Human? Or animal?” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Alana sops up some more of the blood yellow yolk with a forkful of hash. “Isn’t that the same thing?” </i>
</p><p>Dr. Alana Bloom interrupts a book tour as young women disappear in Minnesota college towns every other Friday. To her chagrin, the Bureau’s pet psychopath Will Graham has also been called in to investigate the case. </p><p>Fortunately for Alana, Abigail Hobbs is proving to be a most intriguing distraction…</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alana Bloom/Abigail Hobbs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fic In A Box</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Girl Friday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts">kimaracretak</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A thousand thanks to StripySock for betaing and cheer-leading, and to ictus for the smut check. You guys rock xx</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Dr. Alana Bloom lectures about psychopaths, she packs a full house, standing room only. There is just something about crazy that sells, that little something her agent likes to call “the wow factor.” What this means, Alana tells friends over a couple of sparkling wine cocktails, is that while she can’t write worth a damn, criminal psyches are like catnip to the reading public, the moviegoing public, and the television-watching public alike. Therefore, the books practically sell themselves. </p><p>When Alana Bloom is invited to give a talk on community safety in the aftermath of Elise Nichols’s disappearance, she fills the first three rows of the main auditorium at St. Catherine University in St. Paul, Minnesota.</p><p>It’s certainly a change from when Alana was here last, not two weeks ago. She shakes President Regina Campland’s hand and neither of them mention it. </p><p>However, as Alana takes her seat next to a visibly irritated Jack Crawford, she can feel him vibrating with disappointment. </p><p>She reaches to touch his shoulder, knowing perfectly well that Jack will look down at her when she does, and that makes him feel safe. “It starts with one, Jack. And I’ll be able to speak more frankly with a small group. You know as well as I do that honesty and transparency matter most at times like this. If you were the same age as any of the girls, you’d hardly want to be out after dark, would you?”</p><p>Jack doesn’t respond, but his disappointment dissipates into a reasonable simmer. </p><p> If you’re that desperate, we can get Zeller or Price or someone more with the times to get the word out on Twitter.”</p><p>“Twitter?” </p><p>Alana smiles. “You know, killer at large, please stay home. Hashtag Minnesota Shrike. Something short and sweet.” </p><p>Jack looks unconvinced and uncomfortable. He looks away from her and towards the meager audience, most of them stuck to the screens of their phones. </p><p>Jack Crawford is not particularly a man who keeps his emotions to himself. He does well enough being the center of attention, perhaps because when everyone is looking at him,  Jack knows exactly who he is supposed to be. His persona as the Director of the F.B.I.’s beleaguered Behavioral Analysis Unit is beyond reproach. But get him alone, and the vulnerable cracks that Jack Crawford, person, starts to seep through, a little bit at a time. </p><p>No, that’s not quite right. Alana tries to view Jack Crawford as a human being most of the time. She takes the broad view that Jack is the sort of man who <i>tries</i> his best, but that these sorts of men always have their limits. </p><p>And perhaps Jack is all but too aware of his. It’s a secret that will leak out of him in time, if he’s not careful. </p><p>Jack says, out of the corner of his mouth, “I’m surprised you’ve taken to the nickname, Dr. Bloom.” </p><p>“Only in the nominal sense, Jack. I know to be sensible. What’s to say anyone in the audience even knows what a shrike is? Birdwatching isn’t exactly the happening thing with college students. Unless you know something that I don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>President Campland makes the introductions. Jack Crawford from the F.B.I., Dr. Alana Bloom, celebrated author and sometime-F.B.I. Consultant. </p><p>“But let’s be honest,” Alana says, adjusting the mic on the podium, a usual habit speaking after Jack. “The Feds only call me in for the weird ones.” </p><p>Nervous laughter. She doesn’t dare look at Jack. Rather, she doesn’t need to. </p><p>“I’m supposed to speak to all of you tonight about diligence and safety tonight. The buddy system, not taking backroads after dark, but then you probably know all that already,” Alana continues, “so I’d like to talk a little bit about the person we’re looking for today, and his preferred victim type. Make it a little bit more interesting, don’t you think? The next time a pervert follows you home, you can surprise him with your newfound insight.” </p><p>More laughter, the rhythm is awkward and stilted, but more relaxed than the last. Alana isn’t worried; these kind of things always take time. </p><p>A hand goes up. Alana finds herself staring at an indiscriminate-looking girl in the third row. Plain, pretty, brunette, wholesome almost. None of these are bad things to be, but that’s beside the point. </p><p>“Yes?” </p><p>“But the Shrike <i>isn’t</i> a pervert, is he, Dr. Bloom? There’s no evidence that he’s sexually assaulted any of the girls,” the young woman says. Her accent is flat and Midwestern, but there’s no telling whether she is local or not. That’s the beauty of a college campus. “That would have been reported.” </p><p>“Or maybe it wouldn’t have, we don’t want to make people nervous, after all. But for now, you’re right. No evidence as of yet,” Alana agrees “There’s a lot to go through, and our forensics team is hard at work even now. But there’s no reason to discount that theory. It’s too early to rule anything out.” She pauses, staring the girl down until she lowers her eyes. </p><p>Satisfied with this outcome, Alana goes on, “What I’d like to do now is ask if anyone’s ever seen a shrike at work. It’s rather marvelous, if morbid.” </p><p>This time, no one answers. Alana halfway expects the girl from before to have an opinion again, but she keeps quiet, with her arms crossed. </p><p>The auditorium’s projector is set up as per Alana’s request and a clicker has been left for her use. She plays a ten-second clip of a Northern shrike dancing around its prey, a very dead and partially decomposed house sparrow, its sharp beak not wasting even a sliver of meat on rotting bones. </p><p>Then Alana flicks over to the next picture of Elise Nichols lying still and dead in her bedroom. A fair few people in the audience flinch away. No doubt they can all stomach this level of violence when served up by a procedural of the week. It’s rather different in real life. When it’s close; when it can happen to anyone, to you, even. </p><p>But not the girl from before. There is something in her eyes, a faintest glimmer of a challenge, or something else as she sits up in her chair. No, Alana has to look again with her eyes open, and this time, she thinks she knows—</p><p>The girl is hungry. </p><p> </p><p>“I think it’s unfair that he’s called the Minnesota Shrike.”</p><p>Jack has left Alana in the lobby of the auditorium while he goes out to take what sounds like an urgent call. </p><p>Alana turns to find the girl from earlier. They look at each other up and down, and again, Alana is struck again by the way the girl wears hunger, like it’s a protective charm. The girl’s worn, dark jacket looks a bit light for the weather, but the scarf around her neck looks cozy and warm. “The shrike’s also known as the butcher bird. Would you rather he was called the Minnesota Butcher?” </p><p>The girl shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe.” </p><p>Campland has instituted a campus-wide curfew of 8 P.M., which is now, just about. Alana can see out of the corner of her eye, a uniformed man locking up the auditorium’s two exits. </p><p>The girl looks alone, doesn’t look like she’s waiting for anyone, and most interestingly, doesn’t seem to be bothered by this. </p><p>Plus, it hardly escapes Alana that the girl looks the spitting image of Elise Nichols and some of the other—no, all of the other girls. If she closes her eyes, this girl could easily be Jane Doe Number Ten on a whiteboard back at the Minneapolis Police Station. </p><p>
  <i>MISSING.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>NEVER FOUND. </i>
</p><p>(So Alana imagines.)</p><p>“Did you come here by yourself?” Alana wonders out loud, inclining her head towards the girl. </p><p>“Yes, I did.” The girl nods. Reading Alana’s expression accurately, the girl almost starts to smile, and then seems to think better of it. She rakes a gloved hand through her shoulder-length brown hair, almost drawing Alana’s attention to it. “My friend Marissa said she was going to meet me here after her job, but she chickened out. Said she didn’t want to get grabbed by some pervert while she was on her way home.” </p><p>Alana feels herself smiling in response, despite herself. “And? What did you say to that...I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” </p><p>Usually, Alana doesn’t ask such trivial questions. During book signings, she pointedly avoids asking attendees their names. She has only found this a minor inconvenience exactly once, in New York, when an attendee insisted in a very loud voice that Alana address him by his name. Such impoliteness is on par for the course for the Big Apple, but after taking the man to task for his actions and leaving him in literal pieces next to a dumpster, Alana has since learned to forgive New York for its many transgressions. </p><p>“Abigail Hobbs,” the girl supplies with a vague quirk of her almost-too wide mouth. “Just in case I go missing on my way home.”</p><p>Well,” Alana concedes, “that crossed my mind.” </p><p>Abigail Hobbs opens her mouth, presumably to reply, only to be interrupted by Jack Crawford, who strides up to them with purpose. He hardly seems to notice Abigail there, turning his attention fully to Alana instead. Jack says, “Just got off the phone with Will Graham. He’s agreed to take the first flight out of D.C. and meet us in the morning. He’ll want time alone with the Elise Nichols crime scene.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p> “I’d feel better if you were there.” Jack doesn’t add why, doesn’t need to. </p><p><i>Will Graham</i>. The name hits Alana like a bucket of cold water. Still, she tries not to let the news get to her. “I thought he failed his psych eval, Jack, Will shouldn’t be anywhere near the field, much less a crime scene.” Alana’s blood pressure goes up a little every time Will Graham’s name is mentioned, almost enough that she forgets Abigail Hobbs is listening.</p><p>But only for a moment. Shaking herself, Alana extends a hand towards Abigail, as if to draw her into the scene. Alana doesn’t miss it, the small hesitation in Abigail’s step before she moves to obey, as if she means to make the choice her own. Alana looks pointedly towards Jack. “We can talk about that later, Jack. For now, I’m wondering if we can help Abigail here secure a ride home.” For a moment, Alana lets her hand rest on the small of Abigail’s back, and Abigail doesn’t shy away.</p><p>Jack looks at Abigail, and Alana studies his face in profile. He’s thinking the same thing (missing, never found). </p><p>Finally, Jack says, “Where do you live, Abigail? On campus?”</p><p>Abigail shakes her head. “An apartment in town, but I can find my own way home. I don’t want to get in the way of the F.B.I.” </p><p>“...Technically, I’m not the F.B.I. I only guest-lecture, and, well, consult as needed,” Alana says, dropping her hand. “If it’s in town it’ll probably be on my way.” </p><p>Something else Alana doesn’t do too often: she doesn’t let hunger distract her. After all, everyone is hungry for something, and most of the time, hungry is wanting, ugly, and dull. But there’s something covetous and dark about Abigail’s hunger that worms inside of Alana and lights an unnatural heat that sits insistently in the pit of her stomach. </p><p>“Still,” Abigail demurs, a little nervously, even, “I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience, Dr. Bloom, really.” </p><p>“If you’d inconvenienced me, Abigail, you wouldn’t be standing here now,” Alana says, perhaps a smidgeon too honest, but then Abigail is smiling a secret smile, letting herself in on the secret like it’s no trouble. Of course, it’s a joke. Alana clears her throat and moves to take Abigail by her elbow, says, “Come, no more arguments. I’d like to get you home safe.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>♛♟♛♟♛</p>
</div>Abigail saves the big question for when they are alone: “Who is Will Graham?”<p>The drive out of campus is eerily quiet and when they get into town again, the main streets are deserted. It’s somehow a stark reminder of the Midwestern character that a killer at large could shock the second biggest city in the state into a vigilant silence. </p><p>(Meanwhile, presumably, a girl has already gone missing, unlikely to survive the weekend, given that it’s Friday. It’s something that Alana was explicitly told by Jack and President Campland not to mention.)</p><p>“Will Graham is...” Alana starts, and then stops again, trailing off. There’s never a good way to answer that question, no matter how many times she has tried. It’s both a good thing and a bad thing that consulting with the F.B.I. has given her a few bites at the proverbial apple already. None of Alana’s previous answers have been good enough. Will’s estimation of his own mental state, “somewhere on the spectrum, but probably closer to closer to Asperger’s and autistics than narcissists and sociopaths,” has certainly done him no favors either. It’s the “probably” that ends up shooting Will in the foot time and time again. The Bureau doesn’t like the sort of crazy it doesn’t understand, the kind that isn’t so neatly put in a box or precisely written about in a book. </p><p>Abigail doesn’t ask her again, simply waits for an answer. For a young person, Alana is getting the feeling that Abigail is an inordinately patient individual. </p><p>“Some people think that Will Graham is the Bureau’s pet psychopath,” Alana tells her, finally. “It’s a fairer answer than you think.” It is only after those words leave her mouth, too late to take back, that Alana realizes that honesty has snuck up on her for the second time.</p><p> </p><p>“Make yourself at home, Dr. Bloom, please. I can take your coat.” Abigail makes a point of toeing her shoes off at the door, and Alana bends to do the same, unzipping her boots so that she can remove them. Without the added benefit of her three-inch heels, Alana can’t help but be mindful that Abigail can look down at her now, if she chooses to look.</p><p>(Or maybe Abigail is just being polite.) </p><p>Alana doesn’t mean to stay; she didn’t even really mean to come up for coffee at five minutes to nine at night. But something about Abigail Hobbs compels her to remain, to accept the invitation, and so here she is. Alana wraps her arms tighter around herself, even though the apartment isn’t cold really, and Abigail has already brushed past her to fix the thermostat. </p><p>“I can’t stay long, Abigail,” Alana says. It’s not so much that she thinks Abigail doesn’t know this, but more so that she needs to remind herself. She’s made enough questionable decisions tonight that it seems prudent to remind herself that she might be about to make another.</p><p>“It’s only coffee, Dr. Bloom,” Abigail retorts with a little arch of her eyebrows. “It won’t take you that long. Marissa bought all of our cups. They’re tiny.” And then she adds, lowering her voice as if sharing a big secret, “...She’s from Portland.” </p><p>“That explains a lot, then.” Alana can’t help but smile. </p><p>It’s not a big apartment, but it is cozy. Alana can see that no small amount of effort has been spared by the girls to make sure that this place feels like home. A knitted throw is arranged carefully over the sofa, possibly to cover up the frayed cushions underneath, and a pillow bearing St. Catherine’s logo sits at one end. </p><p>Above the fireplace on the mantelpiece, there are several framed pictures. Another girl—Alana assumes it’s Marissa—standing in front of a cafe in a bright green apron; a photograph of Abigail and Marissa grinning cheek-to-cheek, like sisters. And then finally…</p><p>“—Is this your father, Abigail?” </p><p>It takes Abigail a moment, as she enters the living room again, carrying a tray with two very small cups indeed and a plate of wafer cookies. After setting down the tray, Alana watches Abigail make up her mind about taking a wafer before straightening up. </p><p>“Yeah, that’s Dad,” Abigail says, chewing, eyes averted. </p><p>Alana looks back at the photograph in her hands. She has to admit; it’s not the most flattering picture in the world of either party. It looks to have been a windy day and the picture itself, once Alana has had the opportunity to look at it again, isn’t the best quality either. Yet it’s as if honesty has struck again, rendering father-and-daughter somehow <i>truth-stricken</i>. The wind’s stripped them of all of their layers, leaving nothing but the truth behind. </p><p>For outside of the fact that both Abigail and her father have rifles in hand and look comfortable enough holding them, there is scant resemblance between the two. Alana can see, without even looking too hard, that this is on the forefront of the father’s mind. The uncertainty of his paternity must eat away at him. </p><p>Alana takes great care to put the photograph back exactly how she’s found it. The room is warm enough, but there is a faintest chill in the atmosphere. The coffee makes her feel a bit warmer, but not by much. </p><p>Abigail gestures for Alana to sit, and she does, balancing the matching blue saucer on her knee. “You must look like your mother then, Abigail.” </p><p>Abigail stiffens, but only for a moment. She says, “I don’t know.” </p><p>The coffee is a tad too bitter for Alana’s liking, which is a good reminder to her not to ingest caffeine at this hour. Alana leans forward to put her cup and saucer back onto the coffee table, and to her relief, Abigail doesn’t appear to have noticed. On the contrary, she seems to be lost in not knowing. </p><p>Finally, Abigail speaks again, softer this time, even a touch nervous, “I mean...it’s always just been Dad and me for as long as I can remember. We do everything together.” </p><p>“Everything?” </p><p>Abigail shrugs, as though something has  come loose on her shoulders, like an invisible weight. “Everything.” She echoes. “We go hunting, hiking, birdwatching, sometimes.” </p><p>“I see.” Alana nods, and for just a second, she thinks she does. She thinks she sees through Abigail Hobbs’s small, lonely soul, scarcely made bigger by her father. “Does your dad live nearby?” </p><p>“Not too far, maybe thirty minutes, though he usually speeds. But I’m not allowed to tell anyone that. He mostly visits me during weekends, or if he can get away from work. There’re a lot of nature reserves around here, you know. More places to bury a body.” Abigail seems to have settled into a rhythm now, as she reaches for another wafer cookie. </p><p>“All right. Then why tell me, Abigail?” Normally, Alana doesn’t gloss over the details quite so much, but sometimes, it’s good to dwell on the whole picture. </p><p>The faintest of blushes colors Abigail’s cheeks. She raises her hand, palm inward, as if she’s ready to rub it out. But then, in an extraordinary turn of events she changes her mind, and folds her hands neatly in her lap, after taking a second to inspect her nails. “I suppose I...like you, Dr. Bloom. Is that all right? Something about you speaks to me. I know that must sound quite strange.”</p><p>Propelled by what could only be a like-minded strangeness, Alana reaches forward to run her thumb over the grooves of Abigail’s knuckles. Abigail almost jerks away, but then holds still as Alana takes her hand. “Why do you think that’s strange, Abigail?” </p><p>“It just—is, you know?” Abigail says, exhaling loudly, “I came to see you a couple of weeks ago when you were on your book tour.  But I don’t know you at all, and you don’t know me.” </p><p>“Unless you’re the world’s most consummate liar, Abigail, I like to think I have a sense of you.” Alana waits a beat and lets go of Abigail’s hand. “Did you really come to see me?” The auditorium had been packed then, in stark contrast to today. “I don’t remember seeing you.” Looking at Abigail again, Alana wonders how it was that she had ever thought the young woman plain. </p><p>“Yeah well.” Abigail’s gaze flickers towards the photograph of her and her father on the mantelpiece and then back again. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>♛♟♛♟♛</p>
</div>Somewhere, a phone is ringing. Or maybe it’s just Alana’s alarm set for seven-thirty. It’s too early for her to get up, to get into the headspace of knowing the difference between the two.<p>But the phone—by now, Alana has got no choice but to concede that it’s a phone, the landline to her hotel room—is unceasing, growing louder it seems, with each passing ring. There is still the taste of too bitter coffee on her tongue, which tells her that she hadn’t been drinking last night, but somehow, it still feels as though she has.</p><p>The phone stops ringing for a moment, and in the blessed silence, Alana finds the will to drag herself out of bed and into the bathroom, where she turns on the faucet and splashes fresh (more importantly, cold) water on her face.</p><p>She is at least a bit more awake when the phone rings again. </p><p>“...Alana? This is Will Graham,” says the voice on the other end. “Jack told me where you were staying.” </p><p>“Of course he did. How are you, Will?” </p><p>“Fine,” Will says, and Alana has to admit, the man has an uncanny talent for sounding all right when he...isn’t. She’d be more generous and call him an out and out liar, but then that’d be a lie too. “Can you meet me?”</p><p>“Now?” Alana rakes a hand through her hair, irritated, but reminds herself to remain calm, to take a deep breath. She needs a shower. She’s got dirt underneath her fingernails and the stink that clings to her bedsheets and her clothes is making her queasy.</p><p>“Well, yes,” Will says, a baffled undertone to his voice, as if he couldn’t possibly imagine why calling her at this time would garner such a negative reaction. “I want to get to the Elise Nichols crime scene before things get too rowdy. And you know Jack won’t let me visit an active crime scene unless I’m…” He trails off, breathing noisily on the line. Finally, Will finishes, unhappily, “Supervised. Like I’m going to have an accident if no one’s watching me.” </p><p>Alana hides a smile behind her hand. It’s either that or she really wants to yawn. “You make it sound dire, Will. I’m not F.B.I. I can work with you, and I don’t have to watch you. I know you’re house trained.”</p><p>That doesn’t make him laugh. That’s fine; Will doesn’t laugh much anyway. He doesn’t give up: “And yet you won’t accept my request for therapy.” </p><p>“If I’m your therapist, I’d have to stop being your friend, Will. I’ve already told you this before.” She has, several times, but Alana is almost glad that the conversation has circled back to familiar territory. Will’s silence at the other end is growing heavy, as it descends into quiet injury. Alana sighs, “Look, I—I just got up, all right? Give me twenty minutes.” </p><p> </p><p>“You ever think about how you look like one of the missing girls, Dr. Bloom?” </p><p>Thankfully, Will hasn’t turned up to the reception of her hotel empty handed. Unfortunately, by the time Alana feels human enough to meet him, the coffee has gone cold. However, she is still grateful to have a chance to drink it, as Will has offered to drive to the Nichols’ residence in the neighboring small town of Clearwater. Elise Nichols had agreed to house sit for her parents while they’d gone on a camping trip for their thirty-year anniversary. What a surprise to return home, then, to find their daughter asphyxiated in her own vomit in her childhood bedroom.</p><p>“No,” Alana says, sipping her coffee carefully. She’s pretending it is still hot, and the illusion lasts, until Will pulls the car in next to the house. It’s early enough in the morning on a weekend that the rest of the street seems to still be asleep.  </p><p>There is something eerie about the whole house, and not just because of the plastic numbered signs dotted throughout the place.</p><p>By the time Alana follows Will up the stairs to Elise Nichols’s room, they’ve gotten up to 36, even though most of the disturbances are small enough to be negligible. </p><p>“Can you...stay there?” Will stretches out his arm, keeping Alana near the landing of the stairs. “I need to be alone in the room.” </p><p>“Stay here,” Alana echos. “Fine. Will you leave the door open?” His expression sours immediately at that. Alana thinks for a moment, and then adds, “Come on, Will. You don’t know if Jack’s going to bust in here at any second. We have to at least make it look good.” </p><p>Will has never trusted her; not really, but their friendship has existed with an underlayer of paranoia, so far left alone. If Alana is honest, she doesn’t trust Will either, but it seems disingenuous for her to think of that now. </p><p>Will is looking intently at her again. He seems to be trying to make himself more assertive, like a dog attempting to find his place in a pack. But then he gives up. His shoulders sag in obvious submission as he leans against the doorframe, collecting and rearranging himself. </p><p>Finally, Will sighs. “...What’s happening to your book tour, anyway? Haven’t you already done St. Paul?” </p><p>“I have, but I’ve convinced Maya that this is probably good research for my next book. Besides, between you and me, I hate book tours,” Alana says. “Don’t worry, I won’t mention you. I know you’re p—” <i>paranoid</i> nearly slips out of her mouth, but she catches herself in time. “—Particular.” </p><p>Will looks gratified. “Thanks, I’ll—try not to take too long.” </p><p>“You’ll take as long as you need,” Alana corrects him gently, “after all, don’t you think the girls deserve all of your attention?” </p><p> </p><p>While Will is in Elise Nichols’s bedroom, doing whatever he...does, Alana loiters in the stairwell. A call from Jack Crawford comes none too soon. “Jack,” Alana clears her throat, but quietly, “good morning.” </p><p>Jack doesn’t waste any time. “Are you with him?” </p><p>“If by ‘him’ you mean Will? I am, yes.” Alana tosses a look over her shoulder. As per their agreement, the door to Elise’s bedroom is left slightly ajar, and if she really looks, she can see the elongated shadow of Will as he kneels on the girlish bedspread, fingers of both hands clenched tight into fists.</p><p>“Well?” Jack says, as Alana tries her best to stretch out the pause between them. For the most part, Alana likes to think that she has the advantage. She has a lot more practice waiting it out. She waits for a lot of things: for her book contracts that are almost always late, for perfect opportunities to avail themselves, for her turn at the Whole Foods checkout. </p><p>“How is he, Alana?” </p><p>“He is…” Alana cranes her head back to look at the bedroom. On the one hand, she’s given Will her word not to look; on the other hand she <i>is</i> meant to be looking after him, in her own way (read: not as his therapist). It’s a shame that the Nicholses live in such an old house so obviously averse to secrets. Even without taking a step, Alana can already imagine the creaks and groans emitting from the wooden floorboards beneath her feet. </p><p>“He shouldn’t be in the field, Jack. He asked if I’d ever thought of myself as one of the girls.” </p><p>Jack makes a slightly strangled sound in his throat like a cat dying. “Isn’t that a worthwhile question?” </p><p>“Not to me,” Alana says. She tucks her phone under her jaw and twists a strand of still damp hair between her fingers. “If I were anyone else, Jack, I might have found that deeply offensive. Anyway, it looks like I’ll have to call you back.”</p>
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</div>Later, Will insists they get brunch back in town; it’ll be his treat for waking her up so early. Alana is so shocked that someone like Will Graham even knows about brunch, that she agrees without thinking it through.<p>It’s only when they’re shown to a crowded table at the back of a cafe, and handed slightly greasy menus (Brunch &amp; Lunch!!) that Alana comes to regret her decision. However, it appears that Will is in a better mood than usual, and she’s content enough to let that interest her for now. No doubt it will run its course, like everything else. </p><p>Their waitress is a mousy-haired little thing. Unlike Will, Alana makes a point of not thinking that  the poor girl is destined to go missing come Friday.</p><p>“Hi guys, I’m Marissa! If I can get you anything, just let me know, all right?”</p><p>A too long pause, as Alana stares at her menu and Will stares at the girl. Then he orders them both coffee and tells Marissa to give them a few minutes to decide. Marissa nods and doesn’t give Alana a second glance; she doesn’t even seem that perturbed by Will and his staring, clearly having had her share of weird customers. </p><p> “Hey. You okay?” </p><p>Alana clears her throat. “Yes, why?”</p><p>“You just look like you’ve seen a ghost, is all. I can tell you’re not a hundred percent.”</p><p>Their coffees come, thankfully brought over by a different waitress, a redhead this time. </p><p>“No shit,” Alana reaches for a sugar packet and rips it, spilling only a little down the side of the cup. </p><p>“...Dr. Bloom? What a coincidence.” </p><p>Alana Bloom isn’t a hundred percent, and she’s certainly not ready to deal with Will Graham <i>and</i> Abigail Hobbs in the same frame of reference. But there Abigail is, a hundred percent in the flesh: a bit of makeup, holding a bulky bag that Alana thinks only for a second must contain a severed head, and her fingernails are clean. </p><p>As for Will, he zeroes in on Abigail with an intense stare, although it’s a tossup as to what he’s actually thinking. Not that it seems to bother Abigail all that much as she stares right back. </p><p>“Yes, a coincidence,” Alana says, taking brief refuge in her coffee. </p><p>“Do you know each other?” Will asks. </p><p>Before Alana can answer, Abigail takes the lead. She steps forward and places a hand on Alana’s shoulder. The touch is not unkind, but firm and knowing, as if to make certain that Alana won’t have a choice to escape from her. “Dr. Bloom has a sense of me, but we don’t know each other. Not really.” Her hand leaves Alana’s shoulder to extend itself towards Will. “Sorry, Abigail Hobbs.”</p><p>Will takes her hand. “Will Graham.” </p><p>Abigail raises an eyebrow. “<i>You’re</i> Will Graham.” </p><p>Will retreats to his coffee, eyeing her now with no small amount of suspicion. “We haven’t met, have we?” </p><p>Abigail says, “We’re meeting now, if that counts.” </p><p>It’s odd seeing Will on the backfoot, and such an oddity is a gift in itself. Before Will’s stare can sour further, Alana knocks twice on the table to get his attention. “<i>Mea culpa</i>, Will. I might have mentioned you to Abigail last night. All good things. We had a nice chat, didn’t we, Abigail?” </p><p>Abigail smiles. “Of course.” </p><p>“Abigail!” Marissa has circled back around again to their table, and Alana can’t figure out whether Marissa is pleased to see her friend or not. “You better not be hassling my customers.” </p><p>Abigail says, “Wouldn’t dream of it. It’s just that I ran into Dr. Bloom last night after you ditched me.” </p><p>Marissa opens her mouth and then closes it, just as Will’s phone goes off in his pocket. He fishes it out, frowns at the screen before answering: “Jack? Dr. Bloom and I just sat down—you what?” </p><p>Alana leans forward on her elbows, wanting to catch every little twist of Will’s unhappy mouth. “Will? What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Some hikers,” Will begins, and Alana watches him weighing everything up in his head, landing finally on, <i>fuck it, I’m not proper F.B.I. anyway.</i> “Some hikers found a body. CSU thinks it can’t be more than twelve hours gone.” </p><p>Abigail goes three shades paler from the news but Alana doesn’t think anyone else notices. She says, “Go. Jack will be there and you’ll be fine. You can always call me if you need me.”</p>
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</div>“Aren’t you going with him?” Abigail asks, as she slides into Will Graham’s vacant chair.<p>“I’m hungry,” Alana says, telling the truth, and she’s conscious of Marissa moving to the next table to check on customers, probably still close enough to eavesdrop. After she’s wandered away again, Alana continues, in a slightly lowered tone of voice, “Besides, Will’s not a puppy. I don’t need to look after him all the time. Order something if you’d like, Abigail. My treat.” </p><p>Abigail is still looking a little wan, as if she’s recently thrown up or suffered motion sickness. It makes the red lipstick she’s wearing seem brighter, more eye-catching, not unlike a preening bird. “I’m—I think I’m fine.” </p><p>“Are you feeling all right?” </p><p>Abigail is quick to tuck her hands under the table before Alana can reach for her, perhaps to hide her traitorous pulse. “Maybe. I’m not...exactly used to people finding dead bodies.”</p><p>“I see.” </p><p>While dead bodies appear to disturb Abigail in a  practical sense, she doesn’t seem to mind them in the abstract. She appears eager enough to change the subject: “Was the Abel Gideon case when you saw your first body?” </p><p>Alana isn’t sure what Abigail’s aim is in bringing up Abel Gideon, a name she hasn’t thought about in years, outside of seeing it on discount shelves once in a blue moon. She says as much, “No, it wasn’t my first dead body. But it was one of the most gruesome.”</p><p>Abigail tilts her head, a vision of interest. “Are you talking about the nurse he killed in custody or his wife?” She says this lightly, like she doesn’t really want to be caught out for doing her homework. </p><p>“Well,” Alana drags out the word, long enough for a plate of hash with crispy bacon and a runny egg to be sat down in front of her before she goes on. With her knife and fork, Alana divides the sunny yellow yolk and watches it bleed out all over her plate. “...Since you brought it up, Abigail, you tell me.” </p><p>Abigail <i>hmms</i> thoughtfully into her coffee, rather <i>Will Graham’s</i> coffee, taking a dainty sip before looking back at Alana again. “The nurse was more gruesome, but his wife was possibly more terrible to witness.” </p><p>“I didn’t witness anything until his wife was at the morgue,” Alana says, chewing slowly. “What about your first dead body? Tit for tat.”</p><p>Abigail holds her gaze, dark and steady, like the top of a lake. “Human? Or animal?” </p><p>Alana sops up some more of the yellow yolk blood  with a forkful of hash. “Isn’t that the same thing?” </p><p>Marissa wanders by again with a jug of coffee and Abigail gets a refill. Then she says, “Just sometimes.” </p><p>“It will be all the time, once you grow up a little more.”</p><p>Something flashes in Abigail’s eyes—briefly, for less than a second, even, but once Alana sees it, the knowledge of the girl’s youthful hunger, attractive and consuming entwines itself in her gut. Abigail clears her throat. “Do you think I’m not grown up, Dr. Bloom?” </p><p>Alana puts down her silverware and folds her hands in front of her. “I think you’re very young, Abigail, with plenty of choices to make. Now, that’s not the same thing as growing up; I’m sure you’ll agree.” </p><p>This seems to placate Abigail for the most part. She seems suddenly seized by a certain boldness and stretches out a hand to put over Alana’s. “It’s not tit for tat yet, Alana—do you mind Alana?” </p><p>“I guess not,” Alana says, surprising herself. “Not tit for tat because I haven’t told you mine?”</p><p>Abigail nods and doesn’t move her hand. </p><p>“You must have picked Abel Gideon for a reason,” Alana presses. The more she thinks about it, the stranger it sounds. By rights, Alana’s book detailing her exploits with arguably her most famous patient to date has mostly been relegated to the dark corners of the sophomore slump despite. Alana has written better since, and yet Abigail has still picked Abel Gideon out of all other possibilities.</p><p>Abigail’s hand over hers twitches slightly, like the girl is coming to terms with the choices she’s about to make. This pleases Alana, as this little gesture confirms several things about Abigail that she’d been aching to learn. That Abigail is not as pigheaded as her sense of confidence might suggest, and that she’s willing to learn, and quickly.</p><p>“<i>Journey into the Dark</i> was the first book of yours that I’d ever bought,” Abigail says. “I own all the others too, now, but Dr. Gideon sticks out to me, after all this time.” </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>Abigail shrugs, apparently embarrassed enough to withdraw her hand, but this time, she doesn’t blush. “He seemed so...sure of himself.”</p><p>Alana keeps her laughter to herself, just about. There’s no need for her to discourage Abigail when she is only about to flower.  “Men often are. It’s nothing to admire, Abigail. On the contrary, you should pity men like him for falling back on his singular weakness every time, just grasping at the illusion of control.” </p><p>“...Would you say that about Will Graham, too? He doesn’t look like a psychopath.” Abigail opens her eyes very wide. </p><p>Abigail’s zigzagging between subjects, first Abel Gideon and now Will Graham reminds Alana rather strikingly of a trapped rabbit running every which way to break free from its attentive predator. It’s amusing, in its own way. </p><p>“If you could pick out a psychopath just by looking at him or reading about him, people like me would be out of a job.” Alana quiets as Marissa walks by again. She thinks to ask for the bill this time and Marissa throws Abigail a vaguely suspicious look before smiling at Alana. Night to day. “Or her. I don’t mean to discriminate.” Alana adds, once Marissa is out of earshot. </p><p>“Or her,” Abigail agrees, her expression flickering for briefly. </p><p>Alana lifts her coffee cup to her lips, but stops short to examine the dregs. She says, “Do you know what a divining rod is?”</p><p>Alana thinks she sees it, that moment when Abigail thinks about lying: a toss of a mental coin, followed by a small shake of her head. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“Well, I’ll tell you.” Alana shrugs. “It’s not a real thing, but it’s become something I think about a lot, the more I’m around serial killers.” </p><p>Abigail leans forward, the tension only broken by the soft scrape of her chair. “That makes it sound like they’re around every corner. Like the boogeyman or something.” </p><p>“Maybe they are. We only know about the ones we catch, and we have the most experience catching boneheaded men, because they hardly know how to help themselves. And besides, each city is probably big enough to have two.” </p><p>“So besides the Shrike, there’s probably someone else out there?” Abigail says. </p><p>“Now that I’m here, maybe, yes?” Alana makes a face at the dregs of her coffee again before leaving it behind. “That’s essentially what a divining rod is, anyway. Way back when, people carried divining rods around with them to try to find water in dry places.” </p><p>Usually, Alana doesn’t give in so easily to nostalgia, but Abigail’s rapt attention draws her in, leads her by the hand back down memory lane. “When I was a girl, after it first happened, I read about divining rods. These magical things that seemed to draw people to things. Whether it be water or…” </p><p>“Serial murderers?” Abigail finishes, almost in a whisper. Perfectly prey-like, conscious that she might be caught at any second. </p><p>“Something like that.” </p><p>Underneath the table, Abigail’s knees bump against Alana’s, as if cementing a shared secret. Alana might have given it more of her attention, but she’s distracted momentarily by the incessant buzzing of her cell phone. </p><p>A text from Will: <i>Need to talk to you.</i></p><p>Then: <i>There’s something wrong with the body.</i></p>
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</div>“Should I be here?” Abigail says, tapping her thumb thoughtfully on the wheel. She’s timed the question perfectly, just when she put the car in park right by the sidewalk. Across the street is the county morgue, a gray, morose building built to purpose.<p>Alana fixes her with a look that’s meant to cow her into submission, and Abigail holds out for a moment before lowering her eyes. “Have you ever been inside a morgue?” </p><p>“Of course I haven’t.” </p><p>“Well, then.” Alana smiles at her. “Don’t look a gift horse in the  mouth, Abigail. It’ll be an experience.” </p><p>“But—” Before she can finish her sentence, Abigail bites down on her bottom lip. </p><p>“But?” Alana prompts, pitching her voice to affect just the right amount of interest, not so much as to scare the girl off, but enough to let her know she can’t hide. Not from—this, and certainly not from Alana Bloom. “Unless there’s a reason you don’t want to come in with me.” </p><p>Abigail shakes her head. “No, no reason.” </p><p> </p><p>Alana Bloom is possibly the most glamorous person to have ever walked into the morgue. But she’s only able to distract them for a few minutes before they notice Abigail. </p><p>“She’s my teaching aide,” Alana tells them. She puts her arm around Abigail. “I told her she could come in with me to get some hands-on experience. Didn’t the Director call ahead about me? He should have.” </p><p>“Well, yes, but just you, Dr. Bloom.” </p><p>“That’s not a problem,” Alana says, phone in hand. “Jack has the <i>worst</i> memory, I’ll call him back now. But here’s to hoping I catch him in a good mood. He can hold a grudge like no one else.”</p><p>The M.E., Gary Someone, is young, perhaps nearly as young as Abigail, and surely she’s noticed this too. “I don’t mean to get anyone in trouble, Dr. Bloom.” He smiles, a touch sheepish, a touch hopeful, wholly <i>please don’t eat me.</i> “Will you do me a solid and leave everything where you’ve found it? I guess I can give you a few minutes, go get a cup of coffee or something.” </p><p>“We’ll leave everything ship-shape,” Alana calls after him. “Thanks, Gary.” </p><p>The body with something wrong with it, is sat on a gurney with a pale blue sheet over it, almost as pale as death itself. Alana helps herself to some gloves from the dispenser and gestures for Abigail to do the same. Then she pulls back the sheet, revealing a young woman with wavy brown hair and a dark strangulation mark around her neck. </p><p>
  <i>It’s hard work, choking someone to death, but even harder work, making sure you stay clean. The woman had had shockingly blue eyes when she’d been alive, the sheer color not even obscured by the exhalation of thick smoke she’d blown in Alana’s face.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>By accident.</i>
</p><p>Abigail is fascinated, and Alana can’t help but be taken by her fascination. Very carefully, as if she’s handling a porcelain doll, Abigail inspects the dead woman’s hands, touches her hair, curls it between her fingers. </p><p>“Do we know who she is yet?” </p><p>“Cassie Boyle,” Alana says, reciting the information that Will had sent her in a further text on the drive over. Some of it she didn’t already know, some she did. “She worked at a bar, hiked a lot, smoked too much, as if that sort of thing might balance out.”</p><p>Abigail laughs, a small burst of sound, off-kilter. “So she wasn’t a student? So far, the Shrike has only targeted students. And this looks like she was found not wearing anything. All the other girls were dressed.” </p><p>Alana puts the sheet back over Cassie Boyle and strips the gloves off of her hands. “Does that bother you, that she’s naked? You’re a hunter, Abigail, you must have a lot of respect for animal parts. You could say that about the Shrike—the bird I mean. They’ll keep the corpses around for as long as they can. Waste not want not. But sooner or later, it’s that respect that might kill you.” </p><p>Abigail tosses her gloves too, and her eyes dart around nervously, looking for a way out. But Alana doesn’t let her, she takes one step and then another, pinning Abigail in place before cupping the girl lightly under her chin. </p><p>“...I don’t think you were ever going to go missing, were you, Abigail?” </p><p>Abigail swallows and Alana feels the muscles of her jaw tighten. “I still could.” </p><p> “Good girl,” Alana leans in and kisses her red red mouth, and after a moment, she feels Abigail’s spine, tense as a coiled spring, relax into her touch. “I knew I had a sense of you. You’re a fast learner.”</p>
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</div>While Abigail takes off her clothes in Alana’s hotel room, Alana keeps one eye on her and calls Will Graham. Abigail has a tattoo of a snaking thin vine with young green shoots crawling up her rib cage, and Alana imagines mapping out each of its branches with her tongue.<p>“Did you see the body?” Will doesn’t bother with hellos, and even that doesn’t put Alana in a terrible mood. Alana extends a hand towards Abigail and curls one finger, come hither. Like a cat, lithe and dark, Abigail approaches the bed, settles in, taking care not to disturb the mattress. She tucks her head near Alana’s collarbone and stays deathly still. </p><p>“Yeah, I saw the body.” </p><p>“...Jack doesn’t believe me, but I think there’s something wrong with it.” </p><p>It. Like Cassie Boyle isn’t even a person. The warm weight on Alana’s shoulder starts to convulse, but quietly, as if Abigail can’t stop laughing. Just in case, Alana clamps her free hand over Abigail’s mouth to stop her from making any noise and she feels the vague scrape of Abigail’s teeth on her skin. </p><p>“It?” </p><p>“That’s just it,” Will says, and Alana can see him nodding vigorously while spectacularly missing the point. “<i>It</i>. Cassie Boyle’s body, it’s completely different from what I saw this morning at the Nichols’ house.” </p><p>By now, Abigail has gotten a hold of herself. Her eyes are trained intently on the phone in Alana’s hand, as if she can look right through it and into the grinding cogs of Will’s brain. </p><p>“Anyway, it’s just <i>different</i> somehow, Alana. I can’t really explain it.”</p><p>“If you want me to believe you, Will, you’re going to have to try.”</p><p>Alana can hear him grinding his teeth at the other end. When Abigail shifts closer to her, Alana brushes her lips against Abigail’s temple and slides her hand down Abigail’s body, paying special attention to her small, firm breasts and dark, hardened nipples. Alana pinches her, and Abigail puts her own hand over her mouth. </p><p>“He wanted to see. He wanted Elise Nichols to see him. He respected her, for her studies? For her fine home? Who knows, but he respected her and cared for her. You can’t say the same about Cassie Boyle’s body, can you? You’ve seen it. Found out in the woods, all by herself, exposed to the elements. It was like I was looking at a photo negative. ” </p><p>Alana continues her careful sojourn down Abigail’s body. She traces her fingers over the vine that dances over her ribcage, pressing over her hip. Abigail moves to open her legs, and when Alana presses her fingers flat against Abigail’s clit, feeling how wet she is, a little moan finally escapes from Abigail between her fingers. </p><p>“Alana?”</p><p>“Here.” Alana puts her hand on Abigail’s thigh, fingers pressing down in warning. “A photo negative.” </p><p>Finally, Abigail nods, having gotten a hold of herself again. She skims her teeth over Alana’s bare shoulder, the gesture fully apologetic. </p><p>Alana waits a moment, before resting her hand against Abigail’s cunt again, feeling its warm, wanting pulse. </p><p>“I think it’s a copy-cat. But I think they must know each other, too,” Will says. </p><p>Abigail’s face is flushed a pretty red. She tilts her hips as Alana presses one finger into her, and then two. Alana fucks her slowly, thoughtfully. “Do you think they might be working together?” </p><p>“I think the copy-cat is too smart to want to work with anyone. That whole crime scene was a big fuck you.” </p><p>Abigail is grinding her hips in tight little circles, urging Alana’s fingers deeper inside of her. She’s got her hand gripped around Alana’s wrist, keeping her in place, grinding hard on Alana’s hand.</p><p>“Fuck you. That’s analytical of you, Will.” </p><p>Abigail shudders. Alana makes a note to reward her later, perhaps by kissing the warm insides of her thighs and whispering fuck over and over again. </p><p>Will says, “I’m not even proper F.B.I.” </p><p>Abigail’s fingernails are digging into Alana’s arm. There are tiny pricks of pain that keeps Alana focused as Abigail makes a real effort not to make any sound. She’s so close, Alana can feel Abigail becoming tighter around her fingers, aching and desperate for more. </p><p>Alana laughs and presses into her, deeper and deeper until Abigail is practically arched off the bed, digging the nails of her other hand into Alana’s elbow. “I’m not F.B.I. either, Will. Surely I don’t have to remind you?—So...so any wild conjecture you might have, any wild conspiracy <i>fuck yous</i>, you can lay them on me.” </p><p>(Abigail really likes it when Alana says, “fuck,” after all, it’s not really like her.) </p><p>“I think the Shrike is afraid of losing someone. A college aged daughter, maybe? Someone about to move far away from him. Or maybe he’s already losing her for another reason.” </p><p>“He loves her, you mean,” Alana clarifies. </p><p>“Yeah, he loves her,” Will says, and Alana feels it in a rush, the force of Abigail’s orgasm as she comes, hard and quick, safe in the realization of her father’s love and Alana’s watchful eye.</p>
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</div>Jack Crawford doesn’t have any kids, but God bless him, he really tries. He offers Abigail a cup of watery police station coffee and tries his best not to look constipated.<p>“When was the last time you spoke to your father, Abigail? Sorry to keep asking this, but you understand we’d like to get a handle on the situation, the best we can.” </p><p>Abigail wrings her hands and bites her lip, a perfect, convincing picture of feminine anxiety. “Dad and I always go hiking on Saturdays. We usually meet at the restaurant where Marissa works. It’s why I was there, you could ask her. Sometimes he’s late, but he always shows up. Or he would have called.” </p><p>Jack scribbles something down in his notepad while Will and Alana look on. Then he says, “...And you ran into Will and Dr. Bloom at the diner.”</p><p>“Yes, sir.” </p><p>Jack peers at her again for a few moments longer,  like he’s trying to get his own sense of Abigail. However, Alana can see that Abigail is an old hand at this. No matter how hard Jack stares at her, there’s no way he can peel back the wall of thick fog she’s gathered around herself. Alana thinks, with some degree of irony, that Abigail must have perfected this perfect fog around her staring across the dinner table at her father. </p><p>Then Jack clears his throat, as if to get a handle on himself again. “Abigail, has...anything been going on at home? Have you and Garrett Jacob Hobbs been speaking less than usual?” </p><p>Abigail’s lower lip trembles prettily and she hunches forward, in an effort not to look at anyone. “Yes? I mean, I think so. I’m not sure.” </p><p>Alana reaches out and touches Abigail on her shoulder, says, “Abigail? Would you like to take a short break, get some air?” </p><p>Abigail nods vigorously. “I’d like that.”</p><p>Alana doesn’t have much of a protective instinct; but so far, she’s managed to convince herself that this is different. That Abigail Hobbs is different. That she’ll take playing Hobb(e)s with the natural order of life to a whole new level, even if it was first born out of a happy coincidence, an unexpected alignment of the stars.</p><p>She keeps her arm around Abigail as they leave the room. Alana feels Will’s gaze prickling on her skin, along with the fingernail marks Abigail has left on her arm. </p><p>But Will stays put and simply gives her a nod, and Alana’s so <i>fucking</i> relieved. </p><p> </p><p>Outside the station, it’s cold, but the sun is out, bleak and bright. </p><p>“You’re afraid of him,” Abigail says, softly. “Of Will. Aren’t you, Alana?”  </p><p>“Who in their right mind wouldn’t be afraid of a psychopath?” Alana gives Abigail’s shoulder a final, mindful squeeze before stepping away from her to give the girl some room. “Do you really want to talk about that now?” </p><p>Abigail’s gaze slides down to her shoes. Her voice is even softer now: “If I do this, what will happen to Dad?” </p><p>“It depends,” Alana says, punctuating her words with a shrug. She doesn’t mean to be so flippant, but from her perspective, it’s clearly a sink or swim moment. Abigail will have to learn that for herself; sooner rather than later. “Does your father love you? Fathers do tremendous things for their little girls; even in the animal kingdom.” </p><p>Abigail barely glances her way, but a slow heat is gathering at the side of Alana’s skull. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.” </p><p>“Take wolves, for example. The head of a pack would do anything to protect his cubs. Especially if there’s only one left. And while patriphagy is rare enough as to be unheard of, matriphagy is common enough, especially among spiders.”</p><p>“Matriphagy?” </p><p>“It’s when the offspring devours its mother. It’s one of the most extreme forms of parental care.” From her purse, Alana extracts a phone, not the one she uses for work. “If you do this, you’ll be free. Free as a bird.”</p><p>Abigail takes the phone from her. There are clearly questions swimming around in her head, but like the smart young lady she is, she keeps them for later. With shaking fingers, she dials.</p><p>“...Dad? It’s me, Abigail. I’m...I guess I’m in a bit of trouble. I have to tell you something, about the girls? I don’t have a lot of time.”</p>
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</div>In Alana's mind, there is a clear divide between murder and death. Most people don’t make the distinction and to her, that is a shame.<p>Death is something that happens, often even a natural occurrence, at times. Murder is swift, violent and it starts with intent. </p><p>In the small quiet suburb of Bloomington, Minnesota, shots ring out from a lonesome farmhouse, its nearest neighbor about half a mile away. Despite this, it is quickly confirmed that Garrett Jacob Hobbs has lived alone, ever since his daughter Abigail moved to nearby St. Paul for some more excitement. She has never come home to visit.</p><p>“I <i>meant</i> to visit.” Abigail cries real tears and real ugly hiccups leave her throat. “I meant to, honest, but he always insisted that I…” </p><p>“Shh,” Alana shushes her, because the more real this gets, the shriller Abigail’s voice becomes, not unlike a shrike, after all. “It’s all right, Abigail. It’s not your fault.” </p><p>Meanwhile, she gathers Abigail in her arms and looks across the room at Will Graham. Will, who is a dead man walking and a CSU tech comes and takes his gun away. Jack’s on the phone, speaking agitatedly to someone at a loud volume.</p><p>But Will looks back at Alana, narrowing her world to a thin tiny sliver. He says, “The copycat’s still out there, Alana. I shouldn’t have—”</p><p>“You said it yourself, didn’t you?” Alana pats Abigail’s back as she feels her breathing calm. “The copycat, if there is one, is too smart to work with anyone else. He’d rather tell you to go fuck yourself. If the copycat knew of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, he wouldn't have told him a damn thing.” </p><p>Abigail hiccups loudly. From a certain distance, it almost sounds like a laugh, but no one can be sure. Will doesn’t bat an eyelid.</p><p>Alana says, her hand tightening in Abigail’s hair, “But don’t worry, Will. I know we’ll catch him.”</p>
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